A Commander's Burden
by Ethos
Summary: There is one duty that commanders dread more than any other. Despite Halbarad’s protests, Aragorn has decided to bear this burden alone. One shot.


Author's Note: Please forgive me for any mistakes I've made in this...I'm currently Beta hunting.

Disclaimer: If I ever get to the point where I own the Lord of the Rings, the Rangers, and especially Aragorn, trust me, you will know. I shall never let you hear the end of it. In the meantime, however, Tolkien owns them (darn it!), so this all belongs to him.

* * *

He walked forward. It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, but there was no hesitation in his step, none at least, until he came within site of the row of buildings. Stopping, he rested a hand on a branch, trying to hide his multiple levels of pain, but it glittered in his eyes. 

Halbarad, ever present at his side, stopped as quickly and studied his Chief. "Aragorn, you do not need to do this. You have suffered more than any this day. I will go to them instead, no one will see it as a slight, wounded as you are. Truly, you should be with the healers, not here," the second in command soothed.

It was a sign of Aragorn's condition that he took no offence at his friend's tone, and rather leaned against the tree to relieve the weight on his weary legs. "How can you say that? There is so much devastation before us. No, my friend, my duty lies here. Go and see to the men," he replied wearily.

"Very well, but go with haste. This is a terrible business, and I worry that your wounds will catch you up."

"I will."

Halbarad turned and walked off, pausing briefly to shake his head. Alone now, Aragorn gathered his courage and walked forward.

The house was best described as ramshackle. The thatching was falling off in some places and the sides were not square, giving it a splay-legged appearance. One of the shutters hung at an odd angle. All these things would have normally been seen to as best as possible, but the master had been gone a long time. Only the door was still in perfect condition, and this was a necessity to keep the darkness of the wilderness at bay.

He came at last to the door and stood, hearing his heart pounding in his ears. Taking a deep breath he rapped his knuckles on the wood and waited. The door opened and a black-haired, gray-eyed woman stood there. The smile on her face departed instantly as she took in the sight of the Chieftain standing in her doorway, eyes downcast, still bloodied from battle. Instead her face bleached white as snow and her eyes widened in shock even as her jaw grew slack. Briefly, Aragorn was reminded of a man taking his death-wound. "No," she whispered, crystalline droplets forming in her eyes.

The sight was too much, even for his far too experienced eyes. He looked down. It was all the woman needed to see. She crumpled to the ground as her knees gave out, fortunately managing to land sitting on the stairs. Burying her head in her hands, she broke into sobs. Not knowing what else to do, Aragorn sat beside her. Ere long, he felt wet ribbons wind their way down his own face. There were some days he hated being Chieftain of such a hard-pressed people.

A floorboard creaked within the house and, looking over his shoulder, he saw the dim shapes of children in the shadows. At first there was joy on their faces, no doubt from seeing him, but it quickly melted away as they noticed their mother. The oldest suddenly turned to the others and, gathering them to him, lead them away. The ranger quickly bowed his head in front of him, not able to bear the few memories that cropped up from his own childhood. Then, for a while, all was still.

"How?" came the woman's stone-cold voice through his thoughts.

His shoulders sagged. She deserved the truth, but it was always easier to give when the husband died a swift death. There was an unspoken agreement among all soldiers that they would leave the horrors of war in the field. After all, they fought to keep their families from knowing such terrible things. What was worse, he had seen this woman's husband die. The images played over in his mind even as he sat there, searching for the words. He could hear the screams, smell the blood and fear, taste the grit in his own mouth, see every blow land. He knew that it would be added to the multitude of memories that haunted every night watch he took. There seemed to be no way to describe the scene to this good woman. "He…" the Cheiftain began, but paused, whetting his lips before continuing, "He fought valiantly, but in the end he was separated. Alone, he faced many. He slew several of them, but was dealt a mortal wound. He was a good man, and he died bravely. Know that he saved a lot of men this day with his sacrifice." Finishing, he drew out a many-rayed brooch from a pouch on his belt. The fallen ranger's name was etched in it with elven runes, and he checked swiftly to make sure it was the correct one, before handing it to distraught woman.

More tears slipped down her cheeks as she took the broach and stroked it softly. "Thank you, Aragorn," she said quietly.

Standing up slowly, so as not to aggravate his wounds more than necessary, he turned to face her and bowed low. "If you have any need, lady…" he murmured, attempting to regain control of his tears.

"I know. I shall call on you if I require any help."

He pivoted with martial accuracy on his heel and walked away, unable to stand the woman's pain any longer, nor his memories of her husband, who had been a good and faithful warrior. Weighing the pouch on his belt, and mentally counting the number of brooches contained therein, he sighed. There were times when he hated nothing more than his status as Chieftain. With that final thought, he walked up to the house next door, and rapped his knuckles on the door.


End file.
